This
by Razzlephrat
Summary: Introspective multi-shot of Tony figuring out how he got to where he is. Somewhat Fluffy TIVA, post-Elevator, pre-season 11. "Ziva," his voice is raw, his hope is high and his heart is pounding. "I wasn't asking because I want you to leave, I'm asking because I want you to stay."


" _ **THIS"**_

" _Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton Eye Joe?"_

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A/N: This is going to be a multi-shot (no major plot) explaining how they got here. Forewarning, I really haven't watched anything other than clips since Ziva left and other than the kiss and conversation, there was absolutely nothing redeeming about 11.01 and 11.02 so we're going to pretend that Ziva doesn't stay in Israel "for Gibbs." Goes somewhat AU since TIVA is endgame for me and I'm not going to have Ziva go full-idiot and leave everything for "Gibbs." Also Cotton-Eye Joe has nothing to do with this story but when I started thinking of a description, I started saying "Where did we come from, where did we go?" And well…

* * *

He wakes up one day confused about how they got to this point.

Her clothes in his closet.

Her shampoo in his shower.

Her pristine, gazillion-count Egyptian cotton sheets on his king-size bed.

It must have happened after Dearing, he thinks.

They fell into domesticity by accident, or maybe it was the hand of God. He's not sure if he believes in God anymore, but he definitely believes in something.

They hug, they kiss, and oh do they kiss. They laugh, they cry, they fall asleep together and wake up together. They haven't consummated this, _this_ , whatever it is yet, which should bother him on some level, but it doesn't. And it's not that he doesn't want her, lord knows he does and has for as long as he can remember. But he is just so _damn happy_ to have her in the simplest way. Here, now. Her hand in his, her scent surrounding him, her in the kitchen, preparing something she knows he will love, even though it's healthy, after a long day that they've both suffered through.

She does both their laundry; he buys their groceries, though he does so with a very specific list, complete with a threat that begins "so help me god, if you come back with three boxes of Oreos _something something, paper clips and office supplies,"_ which ensures both of their healthy eating habits.

This domesticity doesn't frighten him the way it should, nor does it seem to bother her. But he wonders exactly what moment this all came to fruition. For all the conversations they've had, casual, serious, light-hearted, fake. All the probes they've both done of their relationship over the years, they haven't discussed _this_.

They've acknowledged their new beings, independently. The "New Elevator Us" as he once put it. But these two deeply dysfunctional people, who talk themselves in and out of every thing, have never taken a moment in the last 3 months to discuss _this,_ their new _relationship._

There it is again, _relationship,_ he thinks.

He can't remember the last date he went on. Or at least he can't remember the last date he actually wanted to go on, other than out of sheer boredom. He can't remember a time, recently, where he's wanted anything more than he wants to sit next to her, like he is now, his arm slung lazily around her shoulder, her body melded into his, their bellies full of delicious food and good wine. Their hearts, filled with a simple sense of happiness, wholeness and love (he hopes it's mutual, he sure feels it) with, honestly, he's not even sure what movie he goaded her into watching. But this, this is _it._ Whatever it is.

He hugs her a little closer, smiling into her hair, watching her reactions, stealthily. It amuses him in all the years she's been here and all the various things she knows, American idioms, movies and tropes still confound her. Part of him has a sneaking suspicion it's a show, just for him.

It dawns on him that there are some things about _this_ that they should definitely discuss, so his heart beaming with love and happiness, he stupidly decides to go straight for it.

"Ziva," he starts, still holding her lithe body against his on the couch "do you still pay rent at your place?"

And it's almost as if he's a magician and she's been in a trance for 12 weeks. His question snaps her awake from whatever dream she'd been living and reality has reared its ugly head.

Suddenly, he's aching at the lack of her warmth against him, her body upright, her face contorted in fear and what he thinks might be embarrassment.

"I, uhm, I…" her mind is going a million miles a minute "I do, yes."

"Maybe you should consider ending your lease." He says, allaying her fears (he hopes) and pulling her back into his side.

But she's pulling away again; acutely aware of what she thinks he is asking (he is.)

"Tony, I am sorry," she says, surveying the living room that has somehow become a mixture of both of their belongings.

"For what?" he holds her hand, pressing his lips against her fingers, hoping to ground her or maybe help her float back up to the cloud that they've very much been living on.

"For taking over your place…for imposing myself like this." She sounds so much like a frightened child to him sometimes.

"Ziva," his voice is raw, his hope is high and his heart is pounding. "I wasn't asking because I want you to leave, I'm asking because I want you to stay."

His words are a shock to them both, he wasn't expecting her to freak out and he wasn't expecting himself to sound so desperate. An uncomfortable moment, or maybe it's been minutes, or hours, of silence are hanging between them before she speaks.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

He should be used to this by now, he has always been waiting for everything in his life, it seems. He's tired of waiting and so he's going to let the world know.

"Ziva." He's trying desperately to pull her back, to where he is "Get out of your own head and just look at me."

Her eyes soften when she meets his, both their resolves fading quickly. She can't help but wonder what it is about him that quiets those loud voices of doubt in her head.

"Okay," she says shakily, without any real conviction. It's not the response he was hoping for, but he'll take it.

"Okay." He pulls her into his chest; grinning and thankful she can't see his face buried in her hair.

For once, Tony DiNozzo isn't waiting on happiness.


End file.
